So I fought the man this weekend. Or, at least, I walked in sympathy of those who do. While wandering around, looking for a late lunch (what does one do if they want to eat at 5:PM on a weekend in this town?), I heard sounds of commotion that most certainly weren’t those of a Law & Order shoot (so, you know, this won’t be reported on Gothamist).
Walking down the block, I thought, “oh, it’s just another East Village protest” wondering what sliver of injustice was being contested. But, you know, I’ve lived in the East Village for quite a while, and I really haven’t seen that many protests. When you can you last remember seeing what you might call “an East Village protest” (and if you can’t conjure up what precisely this is, you aren’t eligible for playing; go to the back of the line for brunch at Clinton Street Baking)?
It was the music that drew me in. I suspected it was the Hungry Marching Band. Which was easy, because how many excellent marching bands do you know that show up at protests? There was a single, inexplicable banner on display, and on the other side of the, well, bulky might be the best term, since it wasn’t overwhelming, but enough to clog the streets, crowd was the police presence.
So I didn’t know what was being protested. Which hardly mattered to me. I’m sure I agreed with it in principle, even as I probably found fault with the means proposed, and ended up feeling standoffish, particularly if I actually spoke to any of the leading agents for change.
The crowd was earnest men of indeterminate age, often presenting a confused message, since the details of their carriage and varied accoutrement, fighting medals, as they were, bespoke of a proud history of East Village protest and dirty hippie girl scamming. And, of course, there was the dirty hippie girl contingent, except they were cleaned up. And had kids. Yah, nothing makes you feel middle aged like a protest filled with strollers. But, really, that’s just a change of pace. The history of leftist rabble rousing has always featured children. It was only the export to Midwest college campuses that made them more age exclusive.
So I’m standing there, really enjoying the music, thinking, “I hope this is a protest to protest how fucking dull protests have been for the past ten years”. It’s not a small point.. Red state evangelicals grasped the notion of culture war pretty quickly and successfully, while all us overgrown socialists thought class war was somehow going to stick, even as the majority of our compatriots hailed from families that would have been at the top of our list were we successful. The weird thing is, everyone loves our culture. Really. It might be only a Mardi Gras moment of disgorging repression, but isn’t this, abstractly and literally, the lifestyle people pursue? So why can’t well sell it better (okay, sure, Maureen Dowd notwithstanding — but you know what’s weird, people really like her everywhere else)?
What we probably need to do is send the Hungry Marching Band on a national tour. Aside from the low key and generally positive (free of the fringe punks who run with these crowds just so they can vandalize things or start fights) vibe, the music made all the difference. People joined up for a block or two, and many who were clearly uninterested in the politics of the gathering, danced in communion we passed by. And it turns out the police presence was a single cruiser following behind, as much keeping traffic from overtaking as it was harassing.
What I was thinking was, if we really were that cool, we would have parades every couple weeks, just to jive with the band. Everyone loves a marching band, right? And I thought, if this were Paris or London, they would probably have some sort of arts funding, but since it’s New York, it would have to be the inevitable EV BID (probably started by EU), and the whole fucking thing would be sponsored by UNIQLO. Then I got bitter and gave up, and decided to just walk along side and enjoy the music on what was probably the last great evening of the year.
The odd thing was, I kept to the sidewalk. I think walking in the street is always a good thing. Exciting, liberating, and, unless officially sanctioned, dangerous. But nothing beats slowing cars by dancing down the street. But I didn’t join because I didn’t know enough about what was going on. It’s slicing things a bit thin, but that’s what balkanized leftist politics are all about, baby. Maybe they were pro-vegan, but not anti-fur. Where did they stand on Fair Trade policies? So I did my part for splintering and hung back.
So what was the protest about? Not so much a protest, but a memorial rally march for Brad Will, who was killed last month in Oaxaca while reporting on fighting between paramilitaries and group seeking to oust the governor of the region, whom they claim illegally manipulated an election.
The reason for the march through the EV, and the seemingly arbitrary stop on 5th Street (where I first encountered it), was his history in the neighborhood, which, while extensive, is most notable for a standoff (in 1997) at the site of the former squat on 5th Street. Single-handedly forestalling city bulldozers by taking the roof, his act resulted in a settlement with the city that preserved a number of squat sites (though that particular location was destroyed under the cover of night).
See, this is the part where my wanting to stay on the sidewalk comes in. I haven’t liked most of the people I’ve met that were squatters. It’s unfortunate because their attitude about land ownership parallels my own, and many can claim precedent of reclaiming land when the area was legitimately downtrodden. That they did not move to gain control sooner (as there a plenty of former squats in the EV that were successfully converted into owner occupancy building under terms that any housing idealist would approve) speaks to either some ideological purity, or perhaps a failure of will due to general flakiness or the impossibility of existing on the fringe of the fringe. And that’s not the whole story, I know. But it also demeans the precepts of squatting and community ownership, since, as anyone who has travelled in these margins knows that not a small percentage of adherents think “community ownership” means “free shit for me”.
But this is unfair to Brad Will. By all accounts, he was a decent man who worked hard to call attention to the struggle against the unfair application of power, legitimate or not. And though it’s the wonderful people that populate places like Fox News that proclaim otherwise, civilized societies respect the right of the journalist and the doctor, regardless of the source of strife. As he had for most of his career, he was just trying to tell someone else’s story. That we were able to remember this with little interference, and, thanks to the musical accompaniment, some joy at what he had done, showing that in some pockets, we can celebrate our civilization without descending into stereotypes or violence, fittingly for a man who, though he died amidst violence, had never been arrested for a violent crime in his life.
======================================
So, did you miss me? I was going to bother writing some clever, pithy (you know, two things I’m usually not) explanation of why things got so slow, or how they were going to change. But y’all are going to read it or you won’t. All I’ll say, as I always do, is that is not an architecture blog (nor has it ever been). I don’t have an better explanation at the moment, so hopefully it will become evident as things evolve once again. Oh, and there’s going to be a new coat of paint, applied in fits and starts. So forgive if it looks a little messy around here.
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Where there’s a Will.
So I fought the man this weekend. Or, at least, I walked in sympathy of those who do. While wandering around, looking for a late lunch (what does one do if they want to eat at 5:PM on a weekend in this town?), I heard sounds of commotion that most certainly weren’t those of a Law & Order shoot (so, you know, this won’t be reported on Gothamist).
Walking down the block, I thought, “oh, it’s just another East Village protest” wondering what sliver of injustice was being contested. But, you know, I’ve lived in the East Village for quite a while, and I really haven’t seen that many protests. When you can you last remember seeing what you might call “an East Village protest” (and if you can’t conjure up what precisely this is, you aren’t eligible for playing; go to the back of the line for brunch at Clinton Street Baking)?
It was the music that drew me in. I suspected it was the Hungry Marching Band. Which was easy, because how many excellent marching bands do you know that show up at protests? There was a single, inexplicable banner on display, and on the other side of the, well, bulky might be the best term, since it wasn’t overwhelming, but enough to clog the streets, crowd was the police presence.
So I didn’t know what was being protested. Which hardly mattered to me. I’m sure I agreed with it in principle, even as I probably found fault with the means proposed, and ended up feeling standoffish, particularly if I actually spoke to any of the leading agents for change.
The crowd was earnest men of indeterminate age, often presenting a confused message, since the details of their carriage and varied accoutrement, fighting medals, as they were, bespoke of a proud history of East Village protest and dirty hippie girl scamming. And, of course, there was the dirty hippie girl contingent, except they were cleaned up. And had kids. Yah, nothing makes you feel middle aged like a protest filled with strollers. But, really, that’s just a change of pace. The history of leftist rabble rousing has always featured children. It was only the export to Midwest college campuses that made them more age exclusive.
So I’m standing there, really enjoying the music, thinking, “I hope this is a protest to protest how fucking dull protests have been for the past ten years”. It’s not a small point.. Red state evangelicals grasped the notion of culture war pretty quickly and successfully, while all us overgrown socialists thought class war was somehow going to stick, even as the majority of our compatriots hailed from families that would have been at the top of our list were we successful. The weird thing is, everyone loves our culture. Really. It might be only a Mardi Gras moment of disgorging repression, but isn’t this, abstractly and literally, the lifestyle people pursue? So why can’t well sell it better (okay, sure, Maureen Dowd notwithstanding — but you know what’s weird, people really like her everywhere else)?
What we probably need to do is send the Hungry Marching Band on a national tour. Aside from the low key and generally positive (free of the fringe punks who run with these crowds just so they can vandalize things or start fights) vibe, the music made all the difference. People joined up for a block or two, and many who were clearly uninterested in the politics of the gathering, danced in communion we passed by. And it turns out the police presence was a single cruiser following behind, as much keeping traffic from overtaking as it was harassing.
What I was thinking was, if we really were that cool, we would have parades every couple weeks, just to jive with the band. Everyone loves a marching band, right? And I thought, if this were Paris or London, they would probably have some sort of arts funding, but since it’s New York, it would have to be the inevitable EV BID (probably started by EU), and the whole fucking thing would be sponsored by UNIQLO. Then I got bitter and gave up, and decided to just walk along side and enjoy the music on what was probably the last great evening of the year.
The odd thing was, I kept to the sidewalk. I think walking in the street is always a good thing. Exciting, liberating, and, unless officially sanctioned, dangerous. But nothing beats slowing cars by dancing down the street. But I didn’t join because I didn’t know enough about what was going on. It’s slicing things a bit thin, but that’s what balkanized leftist politics are all about, baby. Maybe they were pro-vegan, but not anti-fur. Where did they stand on Fair Trade policies? So I did my part for splintering and hung back.
So what was the protest about? Not so much a protest, but a memorial rally march for Brad Will, who was killed last month in Oaxaca while reporting on fighting between paramilitaries and group seeking to oust the governor of the region, whom they claim illegally manipulated an election.
The reason for the march through the EV, and the seemingly arbitrary stop on 5th Street (where I first encountered it), was his history in the neighborhood, which, while extensive, is most notable for a standoff (in 1997) at the site of the former squat on 5th Street. Single-handedly forestalling city bulldozers by taking the roof, his act resulted in a settlement with the city that preserved a number of squat sites (though that particular location was destroyed under the cover of night).
See, this is the part where my wanting to stay on the sidewalk comes in. I haven’t liked most of the people I’ve met that were squatters. It’s unfortunate because their attitude about land ownership parallels my own, and many can claim precedent of reclaiming land when the area was legitimately downtrodden. That they did not move to gain control sooner (as there a plenty of former squats in the EV that were successfully converted into owner occupancy building under terms that any housing idealist would approve) speaks to either some ideological purity, or perhaps a failure of will due to general flakiness or the impossibility of existing on the fringe of the fringe. And that’s not the whole story, I know. But it also demeans the precepts of squatting and community ownership, since, as anyone who has travelled in these margins knows that not a small percentage of adherents think “community ownership” means “free shit for me”.
But this is unfair to Brad Will. By all accounts, he was a decent man who worked hard to call attention to the struggle against the unfair application of power, legitimate or not. And though it’s the wonderful people that populate places like Fox News that proclaim otherwise, civilized societies respect the right of the journalist and the doctor, regardless of the source of strife. As he had for most of his career, he was just trying to tell someone else’s story. That we were able to remember this with little interference, and, thanks to the musical accompaniment, some joy at what he had done, showing that in some pockets, we can celebrate our civilization without descending into stereotypes or violence, fittingly for a man who, though he died amidst violence, had never been arrested for a violent crime in his life.
======================================
So, did you miss me? I was going to bother writing some clever, pithy (you know, two things I’m usually not) explanation of why things got so slow, or how they were going to change. But y’all are going to read it or you won’t. All I’ll say, as I always do, is that is not an architecture blog (nor has it ever been). I don’t have an better explanation at the moment, so hopefully it will become evident as things evolve once again. Oh, and there’s going to be a new coat of paint, applied in fits and starts. So forgive if it looks a little messy around here.